Until We Meet
by 8belles
Summary: AU: Steve never becomes Cap and Bucky falls prey to Zola in Italy and becomes the Winter Soldier anyway. Bucky never remembers who he is because Steve dies of old age. Heartbreaker. I made myself cry writing it. Read with tissues. (Peggy/Angie mentions)


" _Where we going?" Steve asked quickly trying to fall into step with the taller Barnes in his neatly pressed army uniform barely rumpled from his decking of the bully in the alley. Sweeping his mussed hair with one hand Rogers absently tidied his rumpled shirt and coat barely noticing the trash stains and sour smell on it from the fight. Another fight that Bucky saved his scrawny ass from. Clouds of shame darkened his blue eyes as they stepped toward the brightness of the street._

 _Barnes slapped a folded newspaper at his best friend's chest, looking forward to the light but not with confidence. He knew if he looked at Steve right then, the realization of this was their last day together would punch him in the gut and Bucky wasn't sure he'd be able to keep it together. "To the future." He quipped in fake bluster as he strode ahead into it._

The memory caught Steve sitting at his tiny kitchen table, early summer morning light barely penetrating the grime on the miniscule window behind him in his bedroom. Long, faint shadows reached forward across the floor into the future. Just like that day.

Rogers propped his bony chin in his hand, scrawny elbow resting on the edge. In his other hand, he held a pen. He was used to the memories now as they scrolled unbidden through his mind like the movies. The movies. The alley fight. Their last night as best friends before shipping out to England. To the side was yesterday's _New York Times_ front page stating the latest information from the fronts. It made Rogers queasy to look at it.

The weak coffee cooled, steam rising in lazy dancing circles from its chipped cup. The unmatched plate before him held two slim slices of day old bread, lightly toasted and a spoonful of jelly shared between them, thinly. Sometimes, if work was good, he'd use that money and his war ration coupons to get eggs, if they were available. And when work was bad, he'd pick up scrap metal for cash. Just like Bucky had told him to do before he was sent off.

How badly that burned in Steve; the shame that collecting scrap metal seemed to be his only valuable contribution to the war.

Most of the time, as his belly rumbled and his lungs wheezed, he imagined each piece of steel was a bullet casing coming from Bucky's gun. Most of the time it helped.

He still believed he had no less right to fight than Barnes did. Unfortunately, the army didn't seem agree. After his fifth attempt to join using fraudulent identification, he got a very stern talking to by an MP. That MP scared him straight and he hadn't tried since. That was the summer of 1942

It was now half way through 1943.

Steve pushed his pen around randomly on the frayed page. To him, it was doodles. To someone else, it was a beautiful rendering of an art deco border, like in the Empire State building. Within the framing was his latest letter to Bucky.

 _June 4_ _th_ _1943_

 _Dear Buck,_

 _It's me again, working hard at nothing. I must say since you're not here, all the girls are calling my name. It's been nice to be out from under your shadow._

 _Brooklyn just isn't the same without you._

 _I'm staying well. You come home soon._

 _Steve_

The letter was short because paper was a luxury for him. If he found a good piece of cotton rag in the scrap heap, he'd take it home and stretch it out carefully, scraping and trimming until it was as smooth as glass. Then he'd cut it up into small note sized pieces making it last longer. The postage was another expense that he'd gladly pay for giving Bucky a tiny taste of home.

Folding it once, he looked disgustedly at how tiny the note was as he slipped it into a handmade envelope of the same recycled paper. The lonely ache in his chest wasn't his asthma.

Licking the stamp, he placed it firmly in the corner and carefully addressed the letter. Who knows if he even got these? Steve set his jaw firmly. No. Barnes got these. Every one. He knew it.

Glancing at his watch, he saw it was time to get going. Art school wasn't paying for itself. He looked guiltily at the toast and coffee. _Eat it, Rogers. Don't go starving yourself_ , he heard Buck's voice admonish him. With four quick bites and two swallows, it was down his gullet. Barnes would be proud.

Turpentine and oil blasted into his nose making his throat close for a moment. His perpetual wheeze intensified from the aromatic chemicals as he adjusted his seat at his work station. Art school was a gift his dying mother had left him with the tiny amount of money she could scrabble together, kept safe under her bed in an old coffee can. Sara Rogers remembered the bank crash of 1929 and wasn't about to trust her son's future to some stuffed suit at a bank.

His professors quickly appreciated Steve's raw talent and he progressed steadily through his classes, even being allowed to skip some of the more basic level ones. Rogers was always grateful for the opportunity.

The money only covered tuition. Rogers had to be clever to earn brushes and paints by cleaning his professors' dirty ones or stretching canvases over frames, which almost broke his frail body. Steve's skill was quickly widespread for his attention to detail in stretching those canvasses and clean brushes. It seemed he almost didn't have time to paint from all the other work he was doing.

Once he proved he was a competent colorist, he was paid to mix paints for his instructors and students. That labor was time intensive and dirty. His asthma flared up so bad working with the paint thinners and oil sometimes that he had to miss class. Somehow he never was expelled for missing more than the permissible absences.

Having settled himself, he looked back at the doorway of the studio to the hallway beyond. Another movie in his head began.

" _Professor Wilson, can I ask you a favor?" a winded Steve asked as he left class last January._

 _The short, burley man turned around to face Rogers, his tweed vest covering his barrel chest giving him the appearance of a gruff teddy bear. A cigar was clenched between his teeth despite the presence of flammable paint thinners nearby. "What now Rogers?"_

" _I… my… rent." Steve gasped. It was pneumonia this time, "I… need some… more money." His face was flushed red in fever but his body shivered violently with cold._

 _Wilson looked down his pugilistic nose, "Do I look like a bank?"_

" _No. Sir." Roger panted, "I'd like. To. Be the nude model. For Drawing 101." His cheeks flushed redder but not from fever. It had taken him a long time to reconcile his pride and modesty with the fact he'd be evicted if he didn't pay his rent on time. The landlord already didn't like having a single guy living in an apartment when he could charge five times that for a family crammed into the tiny space. Being a nude model for the first-year students could pay this month's rent and a tiny bit afterward._

 _Wilson's cigar almost fell out of his teeth as his face widened in surprise, "You!?_

 _Steve nodded._

" _You can hardly breathe boy! You're skinny as a rail and about as … Gosh. You're as bad as those stories I'm hearing about commin' out of Germany!" Wilson berated Steve, who stood still only his chest heaving like a bellows for air._

 _Wilson looked at him hard seeing the physical reason why the army didn't take him but taking note of the steel resolve the army had missed. Damn shame, he thought. This boy is something._

 _With a sigh, Wilson reached into his pocket and pulled out a bill fold. Money was tight for everyone. His good fortune was that he had some very well-heeled patrons and an 'in' with the U.S. government propaganda office. Many of his posters hung around the country beseeching people to plant victory gardens, buy war bonds and loose lips sink ships! He didn't think of the Rosie the Riveter—damn that Norman Rockwell guy. He couldn't put his name on them, but they looked damn good and the government compensated him well._

" _Here. Take this." Steve's eyes widened at the sight of so many bills. Wilson shoved it at him and crossly commented, "And dammit boy, get you to a doctor. Before you die. I need you to clean my brushes and you mix the best most consistent delft blue I've ever seen."_

 _Rogers was speechless by disease and amazement. Giving a mute nod, he stumbled off on shaky legs. Wilson looked after him, hoping he'd see Steve again and not in a pauper's grave._

"Steve. Steve?" a brusque voice said that snapped him out of his reverie.

Blinking, Rogers focused on the man just to his right, Professor Wilson. He wore his button-down shirt rolled up to his elbows and his suspenders curving wide over his round chest. Small sweat stains appeared at his armpits from the warming weather. Over top was his paint splattered apron making him look a bit like a disheveled cook. His ever-present cigar slowly sent wafts of smoke upward to the ceiling. The smell made Steve want to throw up his meager toast.

"Yes sir?" Rogers replied noticing Wilson had a guest. Two in fact.

"I have a great opportunity for you." Wilson stated, hooking his thumbs in the pockets of his trousers. "Let me introduce to you Senator Brandt and Captain America."

Rogers looked at the senator in his summer wool three-piece suit. A golden pocket chain hung across his vest while oozing political charm from every pore. His friend was a huge, well-muscled man in a crisp dark green uniform. His dark brown hair was perfectly styled and his smile was completely straight as well as blinding. Steve thought he looked too perfect, like something manufactured rather than born. Both men held out hands for a shake. Steve extended and marveled how his hand was engulfed by the Captain's. "Pleased. Steve Rogers."

"It's great to meet you son." The senator beamed as if a photo opportunity was lurking around the corner, "I've heard great things about your work."

"Thanks." Steve replied neutrally glancing at Wilson, who smiled as well, but more humanely.

"How would you like to help the United States Government?" the senator purred.

Steve was all ears.

* * *

Rogers almost floated on a cloud. This day could have not turned out more perfectly, except that Bucky wasn't here. With a quick step moving his feet and a big band tune running through his mind, Steve couldn't imagine a better day. He had a job. A _real_ honest job. The melancholy of the morning had faded away to a mere shadow.

He was going to paint Captain America war bond posters! Finally, he had his chance to help the war effort in a real, meaningful way.

The sun was high in the sky; pigeons were like angels hovering above him and he was employed starting after lunch. Roger walked himself down to the local deli for his favorite: corned beef sandwich and a coke. It was an extravagance he rarely indulged in but today was a good day for an indulgence.

Sitting at the counter, sipping his delightfully carbonated soda, he replayed the conversation in his mind:

"Son, I've been told you'd like to help the war effort." Senator Brandt leaned in and said solemnly.

Steve swallowed wondering how many of his false applications he had seen and if he was in hot water. That MP told him as long as he didn't try one more time…. "Yes. Yes sir. I do."

"Excellent! Professor Wilson here gave me your name as an up and coming artist in portraiture and we need some help." Brandt smiled suddenly leaning back and clapping Rogers on the shoulder sending him almost flying off his painter's stool. Steve hung onto his table to prevent the fall as Captain America looked at him, amused.

"What kind of posters?" Steve asked glancing at Cap, thinking of ideas.

"Well, pictures of this guy right here! He's selling war bonds. We need lots of people to buy them and this is our man to inspire them." Brandt filled in.

Steve looked at the perfect looking soldier, "My best friend is in the army. European theater. 107th." Rogers thought Bucky cut a better-looking officer than this Vitruvian man. "So, where have you served? Europe or Asia?"

"Actually I haven't really seen… action... yet." The Captain replied looking unsure, glancing at the senator for a script to go on. Steve caught the uncertainty in his expression.

"Ah yes. Yes. He will. He's on a special duty right now to help with the war effort." Brandt covered quickly shooting a glance at the impeccable Soldier. "By the way, here is your first check. Work starts after lunch." The senator grinned knowing the dollars on that paper would make Steve forget any misgivings he may have about the SSR- Stark experiment gone wrong.

Rogers looked at the check and clenched his jaw to keep his mouth from falling open. He'd paint this pretty boy any way they wanted him to for that amount. A sliver of sadness stabbed him like a splinter for hardships Barnes must be enduring in combat while he's getting paid. No. Nope. My paintings will help him. The will help all of them, he reassured himself.

"Order up!" the waitress yelled slinging the heaping plate of corned beef on seeded rye his way. She popped her gum and winked at Rogers.

He caught the plate and felt a bit bold with the day's events, "Thanks, miss."

"No problem, dearie. Eat up. Looks like you could use it." she replied and walked toward him from the other side of the counter.

Steve sat up straighter as she approached, "Why? You think I'm too skinny?"

Inclining on her elbows, he could smell her mint gum between her teeth and the hint of rosewater behind her ears, "No. I like my guys a bit leaner." There was a suggestion in her dark eyes. Rogers's cheeks flushed a little but he liked how it felt for once, instead of shame.

Blinking out of her hypnotic stare, he cleared his throat, "Maybe another time. What's your name?"

"Angela Martinelli. You can call me Angie." she stood up slowly and moved away looking over her shoulder at him and her brown pin curls. Steve felt his pulse race and it wasn't the caffeine I the coke. That was the first time he'd talk to a gal for more than a minute and she actually talked back. Today really was his day. Too bad Bucky wasn't here to witness it all. What a letter was he going to write tonight!

* * *

"You're wearing … that?" Steve asked Cap looking at the blue pants and rather silly shirt emblazoned with the white star on the chest. There were tiny wings on the sides of a cowl making him look rather comical.

"Yeah. I kind of like it. It's grown on me." Captain replied as Steve kept looking at him while gathering his supplies. Senator Brandt had instructed him what he was looking for and these were just preliminary sketches.

"Ok. That's fine. Whatever the senator wants." Steve replied looking at his pencils and sketch pad, "Say, you have a real name when they're not calling you Cap?"

The star-spangled man gave a proud beaming smile advertising he had an identity beyond the costume, "Yeah. Gilmore. Gilmore Hodge. Call me Gil."

"Ok, Gil. Let's pose you over there. Like … this." Rogers gave Hodge a chair to prop up a leg so he could lean an arm on his knee and the other at his waist, turning his shoulders slightly toward the viewer. "Hold it just like that for a bit."

"Can I talk?" Gil asked.

"Sure. Just don't move much." Steve replied taking up a spot on his stool, balancing his sketch pad on his bony knees. The rustling of the other art students in the building began to fill the quiet as Steve's pencil scratched across the page.

Eventually Gil spoke up, "So you gotta friend over there."

Rogers' pencil skipped. He glanced up while reaching for his eraser. "Yeah. My best friend."

"That's tough." Gil admitted with insincere pity in his tone, "I guess you couldn't go with him."

Rogers stopped and looked up his back-alley temper rising up his neck like a trail of fire. Keep it together, Rogers, he admonished himself, probably just making small talk. "Let's say the army doesn't see any good use for me." His voice was tight.

"That's too bad." Hodge replied, his eyes raking Steve over and a bit of a sarcastic note in his voice, "Really."

Steve returned to his sketching deciding the less he said about himself the better off he was. Obviously, his new paycheck didn't change the minds of others about his scrawny appearance. "So how you'd get to be the flag?"

"I was chosen." Gil said proudly. Rogers could hear the braggart hiding in the unspoken words. It made his stomach turn.

"Oh really." Rogers quipped, keeping his pencil moving over the paper. There was the feeling in the back of his mind that the less he had to do with Gil, the better.

"Yeah. I was. From a whole group of swell guys. Said they were looking for someone to be a super soldier. I was the best." Gil recited, "I got to meet Howard Stark! Boy, is he something. He's got all the ladies and the toys. And his lab was so scary. They put me in a-"

Steve glanced up at the wall reminiscing about the Starks World of Tomorrow exposition, letting Hodge ramble on about his amazing transformation. That was Roger's fourth time trying to join the army when Bucky pulled him away, talking him down from his latest attempt. "Don't do anything stupid until I get back." Barnes had said. What was this mess he was getting into now?

"Really." Rogers commented absently, not paying one lick of attention to the lurid detail Gil was describing about his serum treatment.

"Yeah, but this girl. She's the one I'd really like to go back and see from PT. _Peggy Carter_. She's somewhere over in Europe now." Gil sighed, moving his arms to pillow his chin as in wistful thought.

"Hey. Don't move." Steve corrected and Hodge moved back to where he was before.

"She's no ordinary dame. She's a regular in the SSR. You know… the Strategic Science Reserve. Very swanky." Gil gushed, "She was a looker too. Could fill out a skirt _real nice_ , if you catch my drift." Gil gave Steve a look that made him want to wretch. Hodge's appraisal changed briefly when Steve didn't respond, "You not in to girls or somethin'?"

Roger's blue eyes snapped up at Gil's, cheeks coloring, "My momma taught me better about how to talk about ladies."

Hodge smiled a wolfish smile, "Draw on, little man." Steve took his advice and drew on, resisting the urge to add vulgar details wondering how this disgusting buffoon was going to sell America war bonds and how Bucky was doing on the front lines.

* * *

A few days later Steve produced several paintings for Senator Brandt from the sketches he had completed. Gil was not by his side having been shipped over to the European theater for a bit of a pick-me-up for the troops. Apparently, he had a whole show knocking out 'Adolph Hitler' with the show girls singing on behind.

Steve wondered briefly if Gil's fantasy would come true seeing Peggy Carter again. Secretly, Rogers wished that Peggy would deck him too.

"These are… outstanding!" Brandt praised gazing over the five paintings in vivid oil detail. The poses ranged from imposing to sorrowful. Their emotional weight was heavy, thoughtful but most of all attractively eye catching.

"Thank you." Steve said modestly, arms behind his back.

"I think I'll take these for my office." Brandt gestured to four, "and this one will be for the posters."

"Only one?" Steve asked, astonished. He thought more of his work would be helping the effort. "If you don't like these, I can do different ones." Steve asked, "I mean, don't you want people to see more than one to remind them to buy those bonds? They might be bored seeing the same image every time."

"Son." Senator Brandt smiled, looking a lot like Gil's self-inflated grin as Steve began to see a pattern in the two men, "You _are_ helping. Gil sells bonds every time he wipes his ass." There was a short manly chuckle, "We don't need girls on every street corner getting too flustered by his… handsomeness."

Steve's eyes darkened with his expression, "I see, sir."

"Good." Brandt concluded, "I'll send you a check for these." He waved casually at the art, "Hodge will be back in a few months to continue his U.S. tour. I'd like him to stop by and do some more poses after he's seen the guys at the front. I think it would add some realism to his expression. War is hell. It changes people." For the first time, Steve saw a hint of vulnerability in the eyes of the senator.

Brandt nodded a curt good bye and departed.

Rogers stood there silently amongst his propaganda paintings, hanging on that last sentence.

* * *

Slowly, he noticed them.

First they popped up in the most public places like train stations, bus stops, grocery store windows. Then they filled places more private: the lobby to the tenements, in restaurant bathrooms, in windows of residents: his painting.

It was Gil, holding his shield on his left arm, pointing at the viewer, steely resolve in his eye saying "I want YOU to buy War Bonds Today!"

Steve almost felt sick looking at them. He almost felt traitorous rather than patriotic.

At the art school, he became a minor celebrity. Lower level students brought him prints of his work. They told him the latest places they had seen his posters displayed. "Hey Rogers!" a first-year student had hollered across the atrium at him one day.

Steve stopped as the kid approached with his club foot, his ticket out of the draft, "What, Alan?"

"I jus' wanted you to know you helped me out last night." Alan replied, shoving his hands in his pockets below his suspenders, rocking back on his heels.

"How so?" Rogers waited, not very interested.

"I was out with my best gal and we saw one of your posters." Alan began, "and I pointed it out to her. Said I know the artist! She loves your work, even if it is about _him_ and not me. But I said I could get a signed copy if she gave me a little somethin' in return." Alan winked.

"I'm going to class." Steve said disgustedly and turned on his heel to leave.

"C'mon Rogers! Give me a break! She has some extra ration coupons for sugar!" Alan called after him.

Steve began to feel a headache working its way over his skull like deep penetrating knives. Wilson saw him at his studio table commenting that Rogers looked unwell. "Take the day, Steve. Get some rest. The burden of fame is a heavy one. You'll get used to it."

Steve looked at Wilson, a feeling of deep loneliness in him, "I don't think I ever will."

He packed up his things and went to class anyway.

* * *

November 1943

With his new employ, Steve now had eggs. Every day it seemed and fresh bread instead of day old nubs. The coffee didn't have to be watered down or re-brewed. He felt like King Midas in his own home, unable to truly connect with anything or anyone because of his new-found fortune. The landlord liked to brag he had the artist of Captain America himself living in his building. Neighbors that hardly noticed him before or openly were cruel to him suddenly became interested in his wellbeing.

Even Mrs. Olivetti slipped him the address of her daughter so perhaps they could meet up sometime. "Dear Steve! So good to see you, young man!" the paper-thin skin of her hands clasped his as they met in the hallway of the tenement the other week. Had she been waiting for him to come home? The creepy feeling that she had been gave Steve the chills.

Rogers realized he was only slightly taller than the old woman as he looked at her white hair done up in a bun from the last century. "My daughter, Maria, she's a good girl. I'm sorry she wasn't so friendly before." The old woman cooed and gave him a smile with a few missing teeth. "Maria really needs a good-" she paused searching for the word, "- **solid** , young man in her life. There are so few left these days." Steve heard the unspoken implication, _"And she's not getting any younger either."_

The piece of paper pressed into his palm, the sharp edges poking his fingers.

"Thank you Mrs. Olivetti. Have a nice evening." Rogers gave a thin smile as the old lady nodded eagerly. Steve bet the crazy codger was thinking he could introduce Maria to Gil himself. If that bet fell short, at least her daughter could have the _painter of Captain America_. He felt sickened again. He quickly left and went to his door to escape the peering eyes of the old woman, who tried a neighborly wave but it only came out as a desperate gesture.

Inside his apartment, he thought about how he'd only been trying to get that address for a few years now. Ever since he'd moved into the building and saw her there helping her mom bring groceries in for Sunday supper, long black hair, hazel eyes, but she clearly made it known she was not interested in an underweight asthmatic. He saw the address- the Griffith Hotel- known for its modest accommodations for young ladies. With a derisive snort, he crumpled the paper up and had dropped it into the trash bin.

Sipping his coffee, he tumbled that hallway scenario in his brain.

The hypocrisy burned him from the inside making him want to spit in their faces. It burned him that as soon as money was involved, he was some sort of super star. _They don't even know who I am_ , he thought. _Only Bucky does_. In the back of his mind, Rogers wondered how Howard Stark could live with himself with all these sycophants.

He kind of missed being ridiculously poor, just him and Bucky and a few other friends. Who needed things when you had people you cared about in your life?

Shoveling eggs into his mouth, he absently flipped through his mail that he had dragged upstairs last night. Angie and he had made some time to 'catch up' with each other and he was in no condition to be reading mail so he had dumped it on the table. _Take that Maria and Mrs. Olivetti_ , he chewed with a smile.

A single card in a specific handwriting caught his eye: Bucky!

Rogers grabbed the envelope like it was life giving and tore it open. The thick black marks of redacted words obliterating most of the text, Steve just marveled at the fact he got a letter from Barnes. Wow, had it been almost six months since he wrote this?

June 1943

Steve,

(REDACTED). I miss pizza. I miss beer. I miss (REDACTED). I want you to know I'm ok. The Army takes pretty good care of us grunts. Sometimes I (REDACTED) when I think about (REDACTED). I'm getting your letters. They make it here intact. Leave some ladies for me when I come home you wingnut.

(REDACTED)

(REDACTED)

Bucky.

Steve smirked, a bit of egg flying out from his lips. Bucky was always such a literalist and no doubt the Miss Manners editors had scrubbed the cussing out of his letter. An ache reformed in his chest that Rogers hadn't felt in a long time.

Suddenly, he glanced at his watch. Gil was going to be in today, about thirty minutes from now. Gulping full strength coffee instead of half strength was a challenge but Rogers made it happen. Grabbing his things, he tucked Bucky's letter into the inside pocket of his blazer. It was going to be typical cold fall day in Brooklyn. Pneumonia weather, Steve vaguely recalled having been so jaded over the years by being deathly sick that he hardly thought about it anymore. But as he did, he wondered, when was the last time he was sick? Right when he got his job and money bought better food. Setting his mouth in a grim line, he didn't want to think about how such a small detail tied to his income level could have made such a profound difference. If he had eaten better, would he be by Bucky's side instead of a short, skinny asthmatic?

The wind beat into him from the Hudson. Pulling his coat tighter, Rogers fought against the gale picking up a _Times_ along the way. He didn't try to open it in the stiff gusts but instead quickly moved towards the art school.

Keeping his head down, he got straight to his artist table and began to assemble his tools for today's work. Steve wasn't sure what to expect after not seeing the pompous ass in four months. Placing the paper face down, he sat and waited.

Senator Brandt appeared first dressed against the cold, his black fedora hiding most of his face as he took his coat off, folding it over his arm, then removing the hat. He was always weathered looking to Rogers but it seemed the four months had aged him considerably. Perhaps law making had finally gotten to him. The headlines out from Congress were never encouraging.

Behind him, Steve would not have recognized Gil unless he knew to expect him. Hodge was bowed and grey looking. A haunted expression was draped on his handsome face. He looked smaller in the silly patriotic outfit. The shield hung from his fingertips not for battle but in defeat.

"Mr. Rogers." The senator greeted Steve quietly, motioning Gil to come up closer. Hodge looked almost afraid to.

"Senator. Gil." Steve said with concern in his tone. "Are you both alright?"

Brandt cleared his throat gently, glancing down at the folded _Times_ at Steve's table, "I take it you haven't seen the paper?"

Steve sat up straighter, looking at the paper now as if it were a poisonous snake, "No. Why?"

"Gil mentioned to me your best friend was in the 107th?" Brandt said, a genuine sorrow in his eyes.

"Yes." Steve felt his heart begin to flutter wildly in his chest.

"I'm sorry to tell you, they were all lost." the senator said solemnly, reaching out for the newspaper and flipping it open with his hand. "Gil was there when they were attacked for his show. He and the girls barely made it out with their lives. Hydra captured and killed the whole regiment. We lost a lot of good men."

In huge black font, the _Times_ proclaimed "ARMY SUFFERS HUGE LOSS IN ITALY. 107th DESTROYED" The wind was sucked from Rogers's chest. A dull roar filled his ears.

"I'm so sorry." Gil whispered. His eyes told novels of pain. Gone was the swaggering braggart that had donned the colors and star just months ago. The war had changed the man.

I was the last thing Steve heard before he ran out of the room as fast as his wiry legs could take him.

* * *

Steve was curled up in a ball on his parent's graves in the cemetery. The cold November winds whipped him mercilessly as a grainy sleet began to fall working fingers of ice into every crevice of his body. Cold. So mind numbing cold.

The shivering was verging on a seizure.

"I just wanna die!" Steve had howled angrily at the wind at first, pounding the nearly frozen ground of the graves till his hands were raw and bloody but now it was just a whimper. "I… wanna… die."

It was black after that.

* * *

When he woke, there was a deep disappointment that he was warm and dry. The opening his eyes, he noticed he was on a couch he did not recognize and wrapped in a blanket that was not his as well. He smelled cigar smoke.

 _Wilson._

He heard dishes being washed in the small kitchen close by and two voices, Wilson and his wife.

"Poor, poor boy." Mrs. Wilson commented sadly, "First his parents, now his best friend."

"Makes me sick. At least I found him before he froze to death. He's got no body fat on him, Susan. None at all." Wilson's voice was sympathetic.

"We'll see to that, war rations or not." She said emphatically, "Go check on him, would you?"

"Yes dear." Wilson replied and Steve heard footsteps.

Steve began to pull down the blanket to sit up and leave as Wilson approached until the room swam like being spun in a fishbowl. "Hold up there, son." Wilson said gruffly, back to his professor persona, the cigar bobbing in his teeth sending halos of smoke upward.

"Sir. Thanks. I need to be going." Steve said half-heartedly and tried again. His legs gave out under him and he plopped back onto the couch. Only then did he notice his hands were bandaged in thick gauze.

"Boy, you are not going anywhere tonight." Wilson said sternly sitting opposite him in the small front room, "You're damn lucky I found you. I hope you didn't damage your hands too bad. You know those are your livelihood."

Rogers looked down at the floor, despondently, tears threatening to spill. Things had been going so well lately.

Sniffling to compose himself, he looked up with a small cough, eyes bloodshot, "Professor Wilson, you really should have left me out there."

Wilson sat back in his chair, his barrel chest making a semicircle in the upholstery. He puffed a few times on the cigar. Steve absently wondered if it was the same one he smoked continually since it always seemed to be the same length. His eyes wandered over Steve not unkindly or strangely but with fatherly appraisal. Rogers felt a lecture coming on but it had been so long since someone told him 'what for' he was welcoming it. Right then he needed direction.

"I fought in the war to end all wars." Wilson began. Steve wasn't surprised. His own father saw action then too. "And I can't begin to describe to you what it's like." He pulled the cigar out of his teeth and gently tapped the ash into a glass tray on the side table. "But what I can tell you is that your friend probably fought like a hellcat and did all of us proud."

Steve's eyes glistened as he took in the high praise for Bucky.

"Do _not_. I repeat. Do not dishonor his memory by giving up, Steven Rogers." Wilson looked at him straight in the face, his low, quiet baritone penetrating to the soul. "Give that boy's sacrifice meaning. Use that gift of yours. Use it to lift us all up, lift him up in memory. Give us a reason to believe that his sacrifice was worth our living onward."

Steve swallowed hard and blinked rapidly but it didn't help. The tears won. Wilson stood up and picked up the lighter man holding him in a paternal hug. "It's ok. Let it out. If you don't, it will kill you." Rogers let the burden be shared between them.

Mrs. Wilson looked warmly on at the scene from the kitchen, wiping her hands on her towel and then glancing at the photo of her own son, standing next to his fighter plane. He wasn't coming home either. The burden was for all of them.

* * *

The morning was clear and quiet. Steve woke up before Angie, who gently snored beside him. Careful as ever, he quietly stuck his feet into his house shoes and shuffled off to get his morning coffee and eggs. He avoided the Christmas gifts piled up by the tree for the kids and grandkids. Angie had a softness for all her children often stating she didn't want them to grow up without, like she had in the Depression.

The coffee was waiting for you when you got up. Rogers looked out the window after he poured himself a cup with creaky, scarred knuckles. It was the small things that were so convenient in this modern age.

A few moments later in a microwave, Steve Rogers had his eggs and was sitting down with the news radio and the paper. The front page was eye catching; the font so big Steve didn't need his reading glasses to see it. HOWARD AND MARIA STARK KILLED IN CAR ACCIDENT.

A quiet whistle passed through his teeth after a sip of coffee. Eagerly he read on that there were some preliminary forensics to suggest that they had run off the road into a tree. The investigation was still pending. Anthony Stark, the couple's twenty-one-year-old son was now the head and CEO of Stark Enterprises.

 _Poor kid_ , he thought absently and turned the page. A funny feeling fluttered in his chest. _Thinking about the past, Rogers?_ He chided himself but the sensation did not decrease but instead radiated into his left arm.

A slow squeezing pain emanated from his sternum into his neck. His breath came in short gasps as his blue eyes searched for his voice to call out to anyone for help.

The tunnel of light appeared before him and he saw his mother, whom he embraced joyfully like when he was a small child. His father stood back in his brown WW1 uniform and embraced him next. In the warm, scintillating brilliance pulling him onward, he saw a few other faces he recognized but not Bucky.

Bucky wasn't here in Heaven? His mind began to whirr in the light and he began to fight it. _Bucky's not here_. Barnes didn't die in 1943. As if a rope had him by the waist, he pulled and yanked against it with all his might. _Bucky was still out there_. Barnes needed him. He just knew it. They had to let him go back. It wasn't his time.

By the time Angie found him, it was too late.

* * *

"Soldat. Report." The cold voice of Karpov whispered in his ear through filthy hair.

"Target eliminated. Serum returned. Mission complete." the often-unused voice of the Winter Soldier intoned with a croak. His eyes stared straight ahead, unblinking, a slight shiver ran through his body making the plates of his left arm vibrate.

"Good, Soldat. Very good." Karpov replied and waved carelessly to his army of technicians. Soon there would be more Winter Soldiers, but until then, he would have to put his favorite toy away.

The white coated technicians lead the Winter Soldier to the wiping chair. As he sat down he ignored their work like the human machine he was. He felt something stir. New York City. Brooklyn. New York. Brooklyn. New York. Steve Rogers. Brooklyn. New York.

Before his damaged brain could parse together the meaning of the random locations and the name, the cold came again and everything disappeared just like it always did until they needed him again.

 **A/N**

 **I saw this amazing post on the Board with Pins of Interest (not sure if we can say that site here or not). Someone suggesting an AU where Steve never becomes Cap and Bucky falls prey to Zola in Italy and becomes the Winter Soldier anyway. The heart breaker was that Bucky never remembers who he is because Steve dies of old age.**

 **That was a writer's prompt from heaven. I had to take it. Hats off to Amber Bueche on her Marvel Candy board and to whomever wrote that post—I don't know your name but it was SO heartbreaking yet inspiring. Thank you**

 **Gil Hodge was the smart-alecky soldier in CA: FA who Peggy DID in fact deck in the nose. This is AU, so I went with it.**

 **By the way. I know bullet casings are brass. Not steel. But Steve doesn't know that.**


End file.
